Poor Identification Kills
by HardHatShetland
Summary: So you may know of a certain overweight martial artist, and his one-sided rivalry with the champion of America and anyone unfortunate enough to share some kind of spurious connection with him. Woe betide those with long blonde hair. You could be a cult leader and self-proclaimed messiah, and he'd still endeavour to shove his messiah kick up your nose. You'd be annoyed too.


It was rather bright and happy that day, or as bright and happy as a very dark and dusty amphitheatre at dusk where a sinister, megalomaniacal cult bases itself can be. So, in other words, neither bright nor happy in the slightest. But it was definitely quite peaceful. The perfect environment for the aforementioned cult to do all sorts of evil plotting and whatnot.

Unfortunately for them, that would soon be put to an abrupt end, as is apt to happen when you do lots of evil plotting.

It started fairly simple. Just a few knocks down the hall in the big parthenon-like structure opposite the amphitheatre. Knocks that sounded suspiciously like punches. Big, heavy punches. Also, the very loud grumbling of a ravenous stomach. And somebody screaming in an extremely high-pitched voice, like Bruce L- I mean, Fei-Long.

But things escalated quite quickly. Soon afterwards, a non-descript cultist came flying out the structure, tumbling down the steps with a series of sickening snaps, smacking face-first into the dirt and getting his elaborate, cat-eared white robes rather dirty. He was about to get up, but he was soon obstructed by a mighty weight upon his back. The weight of a rather large, obese fellow jumping down the steps in one go and stomping on his back. The man was attired in a rather ill-fitting mechanic's jumpsuit, with his hair in a braid, clashing quite greatly with his biker moustache.

This rotund fighter was known by many names, most of them self-assigned, but he was most commonly known as 'Rufus'.

After a quick break to splash some forehead sweat onto the dusty floor, he took a large step forward, creating a dust cloud to surround his fat, outstretched finger, pointed in the direction of the boss he saw before him.

"Well, well, well, at last we meet again, Ken Masters!" He yelled out as his belly jiggled about seemingly by itself. "...Ever since you got your stunt double to humiliate me all those years ago, I returned to my trainin', dedicated myself to it in body and, more importantly, spirit!"

He proceeded to demonstrate these training techniques through gesture, flexing with one arm and doing that Ninja pistol-under-the-lip pose with the other. "...I ate twelve burgers an' steaks a day! I drank nothin' but chocolate milkshakes an' root beer floats! I beat the livin' daylights outta every shapeshiftin' weirdo from 'ere to Moscow!" He demonstrated again, beating up on an invisible shapeshifting weirdo, and plotting an invisible line on an invisible map from 'here'... wherever 'here' was, to Moscow.

"...I paid an absolute fortune to fly all the way to this obscure Greek island, just to find you! But now I'm back, in all my majestic glory, and I'm gonna beat you so hard, you'll have a twitch! You'll rue the day y'thought you could beat me in this game! RUE!"

At last, the fat fighter screamed to the sky, as if to pierce the heavens with his declaration of killing intent. Or... beating-to-unconsciousness intent. His girlfriend wouldn't think too highly of killing, you understand.

"...What?" The man slouching at the throne before him finally said, perplexed.

Which was quite a sight, when you consider that this man looked like some of Greek God with his long blonde hair and his two-toned red-and-blue body, with little left to the imagination by his clothes, or lack thereof. Standing next to him was his suited female secretary, who looked like she couldn't really care less about the fat man. Working for a man like the one just described will do that to you.

"I see you've been doin' well for yourself, Ken Masters!" Rufus continued, striding forward with confidence and exacerbating the jiggle factor of his sticky-out gut. "...You've set up a little cult, got a hideout in Greek ruins, followers in fancy robes, a hot secretary, the works! You tryin' to set up some kinda army so you can get a slither of a fightin' chance against yours truly? Well it ain't gonna work!"

"...I'm sorry, I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about." The man at the throne responded, resting his head on his fist in disinterest.

"Oh, I get it, it's another one of y'tricks, ain't it?" Rufus started up again, taking another great step forward, the secretary slipping past his notice and into a side door. "...You keep underestimatin' me, but I ain't as stupid as I look! I can see past your crappy disguise! You thought that growin' your hair super-long and paradin' around in a man-thong while covered in fancy-pancy body paint would fool me?!"

The boss on the throne sighed in exasperation, in a manner that wouldn't be out of place coming from a frustrated cashier on the night shift. "...What exactly do you want? I've already given the G-Project files to a Shinobi girl, and some worthless car to that English Boxing champion... I am a very busy man, and not a charity service." He said, of course not literally meaning 'man' i.e. mortal, being the leader of an evil cult and all. "...I have food, if that's what you want."

As he was talking, the fellow's secretary had appeared next to Rufus, carrying a silver tray, upon which sat a place of custard cream biscuits and a steaming teapot, the sinister logo of his cult emblazoned proudly on it.

"Food?!" Rufus exclaimed in extreme excitement, almost instinctively grabbing one of the biscuits. "Well, that would be just- hey, wait just a minute there, bub!" He shook his head about like a dog, crushing the biscuit in his flabby hand, reducing it to... well, biscuit crumbs. The secretary rolled her eyes and stepped back towards her boss before he destroyed any more of the cult's pantry.

"...Yer tryin' to trick me, again! Lure me into one o' your traps, like you did with that white dog in the road! I bet this tea 'ere has sedatives an' chilli powder in it!"

The man at the throne simply watched with an eyebrow raised as the fat fighter started ranting again, flailing about with no rhyme or reason and acting out every scenario he described. He took the opportunity to sip at a cup of tea that his faithful secretary had prepared, evidently immune to the mysterious sedatives and chilli powder.

"...Well, it's over, Ken Masters!" Rufus finally bellowed at him with enough force to create ripples in his tea, not unlike the ripples on his own belly... okay, getting old. "...You can't escape your destiny, which is to lie battered an' broken on the floor, oozin' blood and pee everywhere as I stand over you, all badass-like, with my back turned, like I'm sayin, 'I beat you so easy, I ain't even gonna look at you!', an' maybe some kinda Japanese letter'll appear on my back, too, like that other guy I saw..." He paused as he began to scratch his head, looking for the answers. "...What was his name... hakuna matata?"

Suddenly, the man at the throne's face began to twitch in irritation as the cup of tea in his left hand almost spontaneously froze solid. His secretary rolled her eyes again, sighing, and backed off into the same side door she'd been into earlier. She'd seen this exact situation enough times to know where it was going.

"My name is Gill!" He finally identified himself with harshly punctuated words, shattering the frozen cup in his hand with no apparent pain on his part. "...And you will regret annoying me today..."

As Gill 'jumped' off his throne and to his feet in a manner as graceful as a fellow like him could accomplish, Rufus paid no heed to his rather obviously violent disposition.

"Gill?! C'mon Masters, now y'just bein' lazy! Don't tell me y'went through all the trouble o' settin' up this cover crap an' then just half-assed the name! Whatever 'appened to 'Guile', or 'Abel', or hell, 'Poison!' Come t'think of it, I swear I saw you in yer lady disguise with that giant German guy. Strangely adorable for-"

As he was blabbering away, Gill had stepped back a little and grabbed his bicep to shoot a ball of icy energy out of his arm like a gun, shouting "CRYOKINESIS!", as was custom in his line of work.

As you'd expect, the ball of ice hit the distracted Rufus dead-centre in his gut, coating him in a frosty layer of ice (it's how he'd describe it, no doubt) and shooting a few feet above the ground. Of course, heavy as he was, this made him so heavy that he just had to fall back to Earth quickly, shattering the ice in the process.

Rufus grunted as he jumped to his feet, dusting the ice particles off his jumpsuit. "Agh, y'got ice powers now?! That is IT! Nobody turns me into a popsicle 'cept a really nice Ice Cream! WATAAAHHH!" He screamed, slumping into a rather clumsy fight pose.

The sight of it was enough to calm Gill long enough for him to stop and grandiosely slam his hand into his face. His own face, that is. There's only so much insanity a self-proclaimed God-king can take, you know.


End file.
